


What You Walk Away With

by bookhousegirl



Series: Make Room For Other Things [2]
Category: The Wire
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1939479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhousegirl/pseuds/bookhousegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers firsts. But the ones that are significant probably aren’t the ones that white people in the county scrapbook over and think fondly on.</p><p>A series of firsts for Michael.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Walk Away With

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second of my little stories about the relationship between Michael and Dukie. This is Michael's story, an exploration of his possible history and what that means for his future. It serves as kind of a bridge between my one-shot and a future fic. A big thanks to my friend Mony13, who helped me work through a lot of Michael's issues and motivations. All the usual disclaimers, I don't own or profit, etc, etc, I'm just a fan who loves the show and bows down to the greatness of David Simon.
> 
> Title is from a line in Believe Me by Lil Wayne (feat. Drake).

It’s that feeling, like a prickling on the back of the neck that produces chills even though Baltimore is always too warm at night in the summer. The feeling that someone is watching him way too closely, or that some incredibly bad shit is about to go down. Not the adrenaline-pumping, blood through the veins rush of someone yelling the tell-tale “five-oh, five-oh” from the corner down the half-deserted alley, and not the spooked out, giddy feeling when Randy tries to describe Lex being turned into a zombie.

It’s a feeling that makes Michael shiver and want to run away, as hard as he can, as far as he can. He knows that the other guys, Namond especially, idolize the boxer for running game, for being a stone cold pimp, accepting baked goods and dinner casseroles and sex, too, from somebody’s mom and somebody’s aunt. Cutty does it all with a shit-eating grin on his face and a fake-ass attempt at good manners. But inside Michael, it sits wrong, it feels all wrong, hollowed out and predatory and dark and ugly. Michael can feel Cutty’s eyes on him, can feel the sweep up and down, over his form, can feel that the look is appreciative.

He balls his right hand up into a fist, sets his jaw, and wails on the bag.

*****

Years ago, when he still thought there was the slightest chance that prayers worked, Michael would say only one prayer at night. He would lie down in his twin bed, press himself up against the wall, and whisper, “Please not Bug. Please not Bug. Me, me, me. Not Bug.”

The house would be very quiet and still, his mom probably passed out downstairs, and only then, when the streetlight slashed across the room through the blinds, Michael would feel that familiar, terrifying, invisible touch on the back of his neck when he heard footsteps on the stair.

Even as his head was pressed into the mattress, his eyes bleary and tearful, no matter how many times it has happened, even as his step father was above him, holding him down, bigger and stronger, muttering curses and jacking off, Michael thought _me, me, me, not Bug_.

Whatever he believes about prayers and higher powers now, he’s pretty sure that one worked. And while regrets pile up like bodies in the vacants, Michael can’t care too much. That asshole motherfucker got exactly what he deserved, and even though Michael chooses his path from that day forward, it’s both the beginning and the end and that’s fine by him.

*****

He remembers firsts. But the ones that are significant probably aren’t the ones that white people in the county scrapbook over and think fondly on.

He remembers the first time his mom came home all fucked up and how she didn’t get up in the morning and he went to school wondering if she’d be alive when he got back. He remembers the first time he had to hold Bug when he was a baby, because Bug was crying endlessly and he didn’t know where their mom was, and how he didn’t understand why he started crying too and why his heart hurt so badly. He remembers the first time Dukie had to borrow a shirt for school, how Dukie had smiled so shyly, like they weren’t even friends or something, and said, “Thanks Mike,” and how he never gave the shirt back and Michael never asked. He remembers the first time he killed someone, how he didn’t feel bad or good either way, how it just didn’t feel real, none of it felt real.

*****

Michael is twelve the first time a girl kisses him. They are in the sixth grade and he’s started to grow into his body a little more quickly than Randy, who is hopelessly small, and Dukie, who is just regular hopeless. Namond acts like he has more swagger than he ever has a right to, but it’s all a show. When your father is Wee-Bey, that must come with some sort of expectations, but Michael wouldn’t know really.

Apparently girls go for the strong, utterly silent type, though, because one day as they goof off in the hallway, heading to the cafeteria, Shantae Walker grabs him by his collar and pulls him up against her, backing into the lockers.

“What the fuck?” he spits out, looking quickly towards his friends who are still laughing amongst themselves and casually not paying attention.

“I’m gonna kiss you, Michael,” she whispers, and then presses her lips to his. She tastes like old school Bubble-Yum and it’s wet and sloppy and uncoordinated.

“Score!” crows Namond, raising his fist for a bump. Michael rolls his eyes and sees Dukie just smiling and looking at the ground.

Michael shakes his head and laughs. “What?” he demands.

“Nothing. Just, s’cool Mike.” Dukie sticks his hands in the pockets of his khakis.

“Don’t be stupid.”

The cafeteria feels too bright, the styrofoam tray holding a flattened looking steak sub and a white paper cup of canned pears is unbalanced and awkward in his hands. Michael sees Dukie mentally trying to figure out if he can get a juice to go along with the milk that comes with free lunch. He reaches out and snags a second orange juice and puts it on his tray.

*****

In seventh grade, Namond is the one to produce a porno for them to watch, from his dad’s stash that he unearthed in some box in the closet when his mom was out getting her nails and hair done. He is giggling excitedly as he leads them into the done-up rowhouse to watch it after school, when his mom is out at the mall with her friends.

The walls are full of color and everything feels like it’s too much. There’s too much to see and too much to touch and Michael is overwhelmed as he looks at the bright-hued fish swimming in the tank, the shelves full of pictures of Namond’s family, the ceramic knick-knacks that seem like they are everywhere. There’s actually food, so much food, in the cupboards and soda and milk in the fridge.

“Dukie, uh-uh, you can’t,” Namond says, putting a hand up to Dukie’s chest gently.

Dukie balks for a second. “Seriously? Why not?” he whines.

“My mom -”

“Yo, your mom ain’t even here,” Michael intervenes, stepping towards where the two of them have stopped in the entryway. The tile is very shiny, like someone actually cleans that shit. Randy is going to watch the porno with them and Randy wouldn’t know a dick and a vag if they slapped him in the face. It’s incomprehensible that Dukie would be excluded, he’s even the oldest.

Namond is agitated as he turns to Michael and his big eyes are comically pleading. “Michael, I don’t wanna, but you know,” and he gestures helplessly at Dukie.

Michael’s about to speak again, to say how stupid this whole thing is, he doesn’t really want to watch the porn anyway, he’s just curious is all. But Dukie puts up his hands and just smiles and his eyes are soft. “Nah, it’s okay, Mike. I’ll just hang out by the corner, get somethin’ to eat.” He opens the door and steps out, and Namond is cackling and pushing Michael up the stairs to his room.

It’s hard to concentrate on the actual porno. As far as Michael can tell, there’s a lot of dicks getting sucked and a lot of balls slapping against some girl’s ass and a lot of moaning and noise. Randy and Namond think this is awesome and are perpetually high-fiving. Randy seems to have his mouth wide open most of the time and Namond keeps saying something about how this chick is going in his spank bank.

It’s the first time he watches porn, okay. It’s the first time for something else too, something less concrete, but probably more important. He’s different than them, he’s not enjoying this. Later, he remembers thinking that when he fucks someone, he’s going to do it from behind, like this guy in the video. Then he won’t have to see anyone’s scrunched up come-face or kiss anyone’s mouth or not be in control or do anything but try to get off as quickly as possible. He’s already had a lifetime of muffled moans and a hand pushing the back of his neck down and touching him as he kicks against the bed and he never, ever, feels good.

“Awesome, right?” Namond asks, giving him a fist bump as he leaves two hours later. Randy has already wandered off and Michael walks in the direction of his own place. It’s not quite dark out yet and the streets are oddly quiet, in that time period between dinner and when the action of the night begins.

He stops off at the corner mart to get a bag of chips with Old Bay seasoning and a grape soda, when he sees Dukie push off the brick wall to join him. He automatically buys a grape soda for Dukie too and hands it to him, paying with a few rumpled bills in his backpack.

Dukie doesn’t say anything as they walk together, just bumps his arm in a way that Michael is not sure is purposeful. When he looks over, Dukie smiles and shakes his head, and looks down again. It’s not the first time in his lifetime, no, but just in the last couple of hours, yeah, Michael feels like he can breathe again.

*****

He kisses the girl at Six Flags, the one from white rich-ville, Virginia. He does it because Dukie’s there. That’s the only reason. None of that is real. Fuck no.

*****

It’s an eighteen year old girl who he sees hanging around Lanvale Street a lot, who finally takes his hand and drags him inside the rowhouse where he’s been stashed with Dukie and Bug. She’s been pushing hard these past few weeks and Michael has seen Chris giving him the eye repeatedly as if to say _Do this thing. Tap that ass_. Wherever the hell Namond is, he imagines an overly exaggerated wink and congratulatory high five.

As soon as they’ve made it into the rowhouse, she tries to kiss him, her mouth hot and wet and dusky pink, her body pressed up against him. She grabs the hem of his standard issue white t-shirt and scrunches it up, raking her blinged-out nails over his chest.

“No,” he snaps, and pushes her face away from his with his hand. He hates kissing. He doesn’t want to kiss her and feel her mouth open and that level of intimacy is just too too much.

She doesn’t respond badly, it seems to turn her on more, like he just wants to get down to the fucking and skip all the shitty foreplay. Maybe this will be histhing. Michael Lee doesn’t kiss hoes, he just fucks them senseless. Maybe this will help him get by.

She’s bent over the kitchen table, arms braced and hands clutching the sides. He doesn’t even remove her tiny jean skirt, or his pants, just shoves aside her lacy underwear and pushes down his jeans and boxers. She turns around, expectantly, and murmurs, “Come on, Michael, fuck me now.”

“Shut the fuck up and don’t look at me.”

This seems to work too, as she bends down further, her tits pushing out and straining the red tank top she’s wearing. _This is where my brother has to eat breakfast_ , he thinks as he snaps his hips against her ass and places a big hand on the small of her back to hold her in place. It’s just like the porno, no kissing, no touching, nothing intimate, nothing close, nothing real. He clinically watches his dick slide in and out of her from behind, and when she starts whining again, he yanks on her dark hair, which is pretty really, to get her to fucking shut up.

Afterwards, she ambles over to the sofa and picks up the remote. “The fuck you think you’re doing?” Michael snatches it out of her hand and points to the door. “Go.”

Her eyes narrow as she stands up and runs a hand through her really pretty hair. “Fuck you, Michael. You fucking asshole.”

“Whatever.” He sits back on the sofa in her place and tips his head back, wonders where Dukie is, waits for Dukie to come back home.

*****

He must have fallen asleep because he hears soft voices and there’s a glow coming from the eat-in kitchen area. Michael rubs a hand over his eyes and gets up. He pads to the fridge and pulls out a Fanta. Bug makes grabby hands from where he sits at the kitchen table. Michael shakes his head and rubs Bug’s head affectionately. Bug leans back into Michael’s chest.

Dukie’s sitting close, his chair pulled right beside Bug. Dukie has a red pencil and he’s marking through Bug’s math workbook. “You need to do some flashcards, Bug. You should know these,” he says, his voice light.

“Don’t got no flashcards.” Bug frowns a little, chews on the eraser end of his pencil.

“I’ll help you make em, ‘kay?” Dukie nods encouragingly, pulling out several sheets of paper from Bug’s Spider-man notebook and tearing them into rectangles. “Together?” Bug nods and takes a small stack.

Michael watches them for a second. He feels strange. His chest feels suddenly tight, he feels like there’s something in his throat. His eyes sting. He backs away and goes to the window in the living room. It’s not quite dark yet and the light is soft. He strains to hear the familiar sounds of the neighborhood, kids making noise, the call of “WMDs! WMDs!”, the occasional wail of the ambulance or police siren in the distance. He feels like he needs to ground himself in something real.

“You okay, Mike?” Dukie asks from the table. He holds up one of the makeshift cards to Bug.

“Thirty-six!” announces Bug and a huge grin spreads over his face as Dukie turns the card around to show Bug the answer. Bug pumps his fist in the air triumphantly and this makes Dukie laugh.

Michael clenches his jaw and concentrates on the kids across the street, drawing with chalk on the sidewalk. _This is real, this is real_ , he thinks, and he wipes at his eyes.

*****

Dropping off Bug at Aunt Cecile’s is the most painful thing that has ever happened, and holy shit, is that saying something. He tries to push past the vision of Bug’s wet little cheeks and big eyes and how far away this feels from their place.

“He’s allergic to strawberries,” Michael insists, standing on the very respectable porch, ignoring the feeling in his stomach. “He needs to work on his math. He has flashcards.” Because Dukie had made the flashcards.

This isn’t the time for grand declarations or heavy conversations. It’s not the time to say anything, and so Michael says nothing. He doesn’t say, he can’t say, _You’re real, you’re real, you’re the only thing that is real anymore_. He doesn’t say, he can’t say, _Remember that dream about the white picket fence and the house in the county? Let’s do that, me, you, and Bug_.

Instead, Dukie’s talking about the water balloons again. He’s talking about the ice cream and Michael’s heart hurts so much he can barely breathe and when Dukie asks if he remembers, as if Michael could ever forget, he says the only thing he can.

*****

At eighteen Michael has plans. Get Bug back. Find Dukie. Get them the hell out of this fucked up shit hole.

There is an endless parade of shitty firsts now. The first time he stuck up a joint, the rim place, and got away with it. The first time he wasted someone with a shotgun, Omar-style. The first time he slept in a vacant in the winter, wrapped in a blanket, on the poured concrete floor, with a guy he was fairly sure was going to slit his throat as he slept. The first time he had Christmas without Bug because his bitch aunt wouldn’t let him in the house, and in the car alone across the street, he cried so hard he made himself sick. The first time he drove by Edward J. Tilghman middle school and saw kids just like the four of them, joking outside before Mr. Prezbo waved them back indoors.

In all his firsts, there’s a first time that’s missing, and Michael likes to believe the door is still open for that. Some days he doesn’t think it can happen. If you believe the hype, his rep, he’s a dead-eyed cold-blooded killer now. Or maybe has been for a long time. Is he the only one who knows he couldn’t kill that kid?

Some days he thinks about the time he beat the shit out of Namond at Cutty’s gym. Some days he thinks about the time he had to get them out of there so fucking fast, in the middle of watching some dumbass tv show, the last time they were all together, the last time anything felt grounded and strong.

He tries not to remember the low laugh, the trusting smile, the stupid day with the flashcards, the extra orange juice, the fucking ice cream.

******


End file.
